


Fallen Feathers

by Pearly_Ashes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, Sleepy Crowley, Wing Grooming, Wings, feathers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25051747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Ashes/pseuds/Pearly_Ashes
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 103





	Fallen Feathers

Crowley was unhappy. Not an unusual state of affairs for him, but no less pleasant for its familiarity. And as usual, he was dealing with it in the best way possible: alcohol. He was currently sprawled over the ostentatiously ornate chair behind his desk, hands curled around a bottle that he simply couldn’t be bothered to pour into a proper glass. He also couldn’t be bothered to count how many times he had miracled it full again after he had knocked back the last dregs at the bottom. It was quite frankly very lucky that he was not human, as several of his rather important bodily functions would have given out several bottles ago. Fortunately, no one had bothered to inform him that his corporation might need a functioning liver at some point.

It would probably be helpful to know what exactly was the reason for his current mood. Simply put, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He and Aziraphale had pulled off their miraculous escape from their respective head offices four months ago now, and while not ungrateful, Crowley had no idea what to do with his time. He and his-the,  _ the  _ angel go out to dinner of course, rather more often than they used to, even were scheduled to do so that very evening, but that can hardly fill up entire days worth of free time formerly occupied by carrying out various minor temptations and the like around London.

As such, Crowley found himself spending much of his time doing little more than sitting, or occasionally snoozing his way through days at a time, and on the occasion he was awake, he was usually clutching a glass or bottle of something alcoholic. Anyone looking at his life would have immediately proclaimed “depression”, and they might be right, but he’d be damned if he was going to let some human examine him anyways.

He leaned forward in his chair morosely, elbows coming to rest on his knees. What he really wanted right now was Aziraphale. He wanted to go to the bookshop, terrify any customers lingering between the shelves, and drag the angel out for a picnic. It was quite possible the angel wouldn’t mind, as he was hardly going to sell anything anyways, and for a moment Crowley peered at his cell phone, lying on the desk, and considered calling the angel to ask if he wanted to do just that.

A twinge in his back interrupted his train of thought, and he twitched at the feeling, frowning in discomfort as it grew into a throbbing between his shoulder blades. 

“Bloody hell…” he hissed, standing up, which was an impressive feat considering how quite frankly wasted he was. He swayed for a moment, before leaning forward slightly to grip the desk with both hands. A moment of concentration and an odd whooshing sound later two enormous black wings unfolded from the air behind him and settled at his sides, drooping out over the floor. The rest of Crowley soon followed, his legs deciding they had finally had enough of keeping his inebriated body up, especially with the sudden addition of several pounds of feathers and hollow bones. He didn’t really care though, and propped himself into something resembling a sitting position. 

He stared blearily at the wing closest to his face. Even the way he was feeling, he could tell something was a bit off, so he sobered up with a regretful sigh and sat up a tad straighter on the cold floor before pulling a wing forward and carding a few fingers through it. 

Downy black tufts stuck to his hand when he pulled it away, and he made a face at them before shaking his wrist vigorously to dislocate them. Of course he had to be  _ molting.  _ It had happened before of course, but it never got any less annoying. It always foreshadowed several days, usually closer to weeks or months, of having his wings out and preening to get out the old feathers and make sure the new ones came in right. 

More importantly though, it meant a lot of pain. Crowley couldn’t remember if molting hurt for angels (and he was hardly going to ask Aziraphale such a question), but for a demon, molting was rather horrid. The feathers burned as they came out, and burned as they came back in. Some sort of eternal punishment for the fall, he supposed. He didn’t really care. For whatever reason, it hurt, and that was enough for him. With a sigh, he set about straightening the black feathers in front of him, resisting the urge to miracle up another bottle of wine for the occasion.

The sun had set long ago when Crowley was startled by a knocking at his apartment door. 

“Crowley, are you in there?” called the voice that the demon knew better than any other.

That was when he realized that he was supposed to have met Aziraphale at the Ritz at least five hours ago. He cursed quietly under his breath before heaving himself to his feet and attempting to saunter over toward the door (he realized about halfway that the weight of wings on your back makes sauntering rather more difficult). 

He cracked the door open slightly, peering out at the white haired angel.“Er...yeah. Sorry I missed our meetup. Something...came up”

“Oh, that’s quite all right” beamed Aziraphale. “I knew it must have been something, you’ve never failed to show without good reason.”

Crowley gave a slightly pained smile as his wings twinged again, the feathers seeming to hiss with sudden heat. He was hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t notice.

Of course he noticed. A slight frown creased the angel’s brow. “Crowley, dear, are you alright?”

Mentally smacking himself for his slip up, Crowley made his best attempt at a nonchalant expression “Perfectly fine, angel.”

Aziraphale was in no way convinced. “And why are you hiding behind the door like that? Has something happened? Are you hurt?” He craned his neck to try and see around Crowley’s head into his flat.

“No, angel, I jussst told you everything’sss fine.” The believability of this statement was severely undermined by the fact that the rapidly increasing pain from his wings was distracting him enough to make him hiss. He attempted to shut the door, as he was rapidly losing his grip on the conversation anyways.

A foot lodged in the door, and Aziraphale gave him a stern look. The sort of look that told Crowley he really ought to miracle himself away unless he wanted to explain the entire situation. He raised his fingers to snap himself away- and crumpled against the wall, gritting his teeth as a wave of burning pain seared through the flesh under his feathers. 

When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale was not only in his apartment, but standing over Crowley with an expression of mixed annoyance and worry. “Really now, what  _ is  _ the matter?”

Crowley didn’t have the energy to refuse him any longer. “ ‘m molting” he muttered miserably.

“ _ Molting? _ My dear boy, I thought you’d been stabbed at the very least!”

“Feelsss like it” Crowley groaned, pulling a wing forward and yanking his fingers through it again. He sighed as the pain subsided slightly.

Aziraphale’s irritated expression melted away, replaced rapidly by one of regret. Crowley groaned, burying his face in his hands. He hated making the angel feel bad. He was just about to sit up straighter when he felt the angel reach down and- pick him up. His head jerked up as he registered that, yes, Aziraphale, who couldn’t even sustain a jog for a few minutes, was holding him bridal style, hand carefully avoiding the place where his wings emerged from his back, and carrying him through his own apartment. Crowley still wasn’t through trying to stutter out a reasonable reply when Aziraphale deposited him on his bed in a sitting position.

Crowley found his voice then. “W-what was that?!” 

“Come now, anyone can tell you it’s best to molt in a comfortable place, and your… minimalistic design choices don’t leave many options, you know.”

Crowley gave a grudging nod. “You didn’t have to carry me you know, I have perfectly functional legss-“ he bit off the tail end of a hiss.

Aziraphale seemed to prefer not to acknowledge this comment. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Crowley didn’t answer, appearing to focus on the motion of his hands buried in downy fluff. In reality, he was trying to keep his mouth from asking the question his mournful expression was already asking.

Aziraphale got it anyway. “....Would it be all right if I helped you groom them?”

Crowley was about to respond (with what he didn’t exactly know. He was still trying to come up with a good reason to accept the angel’s offer) when he hissed in pain again, doubling over as the burning feeling spread through his wings all over again. They hunched forward, wrapping so tightly around him that he resembled a feathered cacoon. 

Crowley began to yank at the feathers, not heeding whether they were ready to come out or not,  _ he just wanted it to stop. _ He ripped out a handful of black fluff, reached for another, but was interrupted, once again, by the angel. This time it was his hands, pulling the feathery veil away from Crowley’s face, and gathering the demons‘ hands in his to keep them away from his wings.

Crowley made a strangled noise of distress. “N-no, please, angel! I need to get them out or it’ll be worse!”

Aziraphale pursed his lips slightly, but nodded decisively. “Alright. If you must then I’m going to help you. Turn around.”

Crowley tried his best not to show how relieved he was as he flipped around and moved to the other end of the bed. A few moments later, he felt the mattress shift as Aziraphale settled behind. Crowley moved his wings so they were folded behind him, easy to move to wherever the angel behind him might need them. His mind was still trying to process what exactly had happened. He was also wrestling back the notion that this was very wrong. He had to keep reminding himself that he and Aziraphale were on their own side now. There was no head office to worry about, and no reason to refuse help offered by a...friend.

His train of thought was interrupted by the tiniest of coughs from behind him. “Would you spread one for me please?”

“Sure.” He mumbled, perhaps a little sulkily. He let the muscles in his right wing go mostly limp, the feathers sliding smoothly down the sheets.

Aziraphale made a small noise of surprise. Crowley craned his head to get a better look at his face “What’s the matter, angel?” He said, trying not to let worry slip into his voice. Despite the way they occasionally hurt or got in the way, and his griping about the amount of maintenance, Crowley was in reality very fond of his wings. They were something he retained after his fall, something that, despite a change in shade, were the same as when he had been in heaven, and the idea of something happening to them was rather unbearable.

“Er, nothing. Your wings are just...very well kept, that’s all” Aziraphale said quickly. He still hadn’t touched the feathers, and Crowley was getting slightly impatient.

“I groom them pretty often. Don’t you?” Most demons took surprisingly excellent care of their wings, and though Crowley hadn’t had someone else to help him do it in a while (there was no way he trusted anyone in hell to help him, and the denizens of heaven even less so), he made sure to keep them at near peak perfection at all times.

Aziraphale looked slightly embarrassed. “I ah, do ... on occasion”

Crowley wanted to make some smart comment about how angels ought to be perfectly holy looking all the time, but luckily for the angel’s pride, he chose that moment to finally pull a tentative hand through the primaries on the wing Crowley had laid out for him.

Any response Crowley had prepared was immediately shoved out of his brain as Aziraphale’s fingers slid through his feathers. He was so  _ gentle,  _ like he thought Crowley would break if he pulled too hard on the jet black barbs. But more than that, it felt like his touch was drawing out that awful, searing pain that had been burning through them so fiercely moments before.

He gave a quiet sigh, some of the tension leeching out of him. Aziraphale paused after a couple strokes, and it took a great deal of effort on the demon’s part not to demand he continue. Instead he just looked at the angel quizzically.

Aziraphale looked anxious. “Am I doing it right?” He asked, hands wringing unconsciously.

Crowley’s jaw dropped slightly. How could this absolutely perfect angel be so very doubtful of himself all the time? “Course, angel. There’s not really a wrong way to groom ‘em you know”

“Well- I- no, I suppose not…” he subsided, and went back to carefully smoothing the wing, working up toward some of the secondaries now.

Crowley was quiet for a while, enjoying the soft touch of the angel. This was nice, but he bet it could be better. How to convince Aziraphale…? “You can… be a little rougher, if you want. The feathers do need to come out. No sense being too gentle with them.” He said. There, that ought to do it.

Aziraphale jumped slightly when he spoke, his hands stilling. “Oh… sorry.” He murmured. His hands moved away for a moment, just long enough for Crowley to mourn their loss, before plunging back, deep into the downy fluff near his shoulders. Crowley couldn’t help the gasp, the delighted shivers that ran through him, the way the muscles in his wing all went slack at once.

“Is that better dear?” The angel’s voice was still gentle as ever, but Crowley could hear an odd glimmer of worry in it. He nodded, head lolling slightly.

“ ‘Sss perfect.” He hissed, no longer out of pain, but genuine relaxation. He let his eyelids fall a bit, his head and shoulders drooping forward in a boneless manner.

Aziraphale, was, for his part, surprised the demon had permitted him to help so quickly. Not that he was unhappy, mind. Quite the opposite. He loved Crowley’s wings, the sleek black things that they were. Black only to the unobserving eye, they gleamed in gemlike tints, blue and greens and purples shimmering across the feathers.

But Crowley had never let him so much as straighten a feather before. On the rare occasion Aziraphale would tentatively extend the offer to groom them, Crowley would usually find somewhere else to be all of a sudden. Aziraphale only felt worse about the whole situation when it occurred to him to wonder if molting always hurt Crowley as much as it appeared to be now. He frowned as he picked at the feathers, scratching at pinfeathers and combing through the shafts. Had Crowley had to do this all by himself before, every time? He couldn’t imagine demons being willing to help each other out with grooming. The very idea was laughable, if it wasn’t so sad.

Well, he thought, he was going to make up for all the times Crowley had had to do this by himself right now. Crowley’s eyes were already half lidded, his breathing slow, but Aziraphale could see the tension that still thrummed through him, ready to scrunch back into himself at a moment’s notice. That wouldn’t do at all. Aziraphale gave the few remaining pineathers on the right wing a few scratches to free them from their sheaths, then pulled the left wing out toward him as well, which he hadn’t even touched yet. He cast an appraising eye over it. Crowley clearly put effort into keeping his wings well kept, that much was obvious from the way the feathers that weren’t loose were laid out in perfect order. 

He would have been more embarrassed at the state of his own wings, safely tucked away in an incorporeal state, but he was by now quite focused on the task in front of him. The feathers in front of him were perfectly smooth now, and there were no white feather shafts to be seen, only small new feathers gleaming in the yellowy lamplight. He gave it one last careful looking before gently tucking it against the demon’s back and reaching for the other, much more ragged looking wing. He was met with little resistance. Crowley was bent almost double over his crossed legs by now, eyes mostly lidded long ago, and sinking a little further into the mattress with every slow exhale. 

The second wing went just as smoothly as the first, only interrupted when Crowley, so out of it at this point, finally flopped onto his left side, mussing up the feathers on his freshly groomed wings all over again. Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to be upset though. He smoothed his hands over the most ruffled feathers one last time before slowly rising to his feet, stepping carefully on the cold grey floor. A hand reaching out from the bed stopped him before he had gone two steps, the grip firm, but lax.

“....Angel? Where you goin’?” The quiet voice from the bed matched the grip on Aziraphale’s jacket. Just as wobbly and liable to lose hold with the least bit of resistance.

“Er, Blanket?” He answered, pointing halfheartedly at a closet in the corner, which he knew perfectly well was highly unlikely to hold anything resembling a blanket.

“But ‘ve got a blanket, see?” Crowley flopped his other arm across the bed, indicating the comforter at large.

Aziraphale never was all that good at lying. “Well, yes you do. But I have to get back to my bookshop anyway.”

The hand in his jacket only tightened, and pulled a little bit harder. “Mm-mm. Stay here. You’re not gonna sell anythin’ and you know it….”

“Well no, but- well- I don’t know. I thought you’d like to be alone.”

A funny sound, something between a snort and chuckle escaped the demon, then he hiked himself up onto his elbow and gave the angel’s jacket one last from tug, pulling just hard enough that he landed, poorly balanced, in a sitting position on the bed. Crowley took the opportunity to flop on top of him, immediately destroying any semblance of balance remaining and effectively trapping Aziraphale there, barring any miraculous escapes of course.

The angel definitely did not make a slight squeaking sound when Crowley settled on him, and he certainly did not stay there for the rest of the night and well into the morning watching the demon’s chest rise and fall, and his eyes flutter as his sleeping thoughts wandered. And he absolutely, most definitely, most assuredly did not return the next night, or the night after that, or the the night after that to comfort his dear demon in the midst of his molt and happen to stay the night.

And even if he did, who would know?


End file.
